Brodie quickly entered the room, kicked the gun aside, and closed the door behind him.
The MBR guy was on his back, frothy blood gushing from a sucking chest wound.
Brodie stayed in a firing stance and quickly scanned the dimly lit room.
Luis was sitting on a chair in the far corner, his head resting on his chest, and Brodie thought he was dead, but then saw his chest heave.
He moved quickly to Luis, whose hands were tied to the arms of the chair with multicolored bondage scarves. Brodie lifted Luis’ head by his chin and saw that he had a bruised cheek and puffy eye. “Luis!”
Luis opened his eyes and stared at Brodie.
Brodie asked, “You okay?”
Luis nodded.
The MBR guy had a sheathed knife on his belt, and Brodie took it and cut through the ties on Luis’ wrists. “Okay, amigo. Can you stand?”
Again Luis nodded, then stood unsteadily.
“You okay?”
“Sí…”
“Can you run like hell?”
Luis took a deep breath. “Sí…” He looked at Brodie. “Thank you.”
“Hey, I got you into this, I’ll get you out.”
Brodie retrieved the MBR guy’s gun, which was another Beretta with a silencer, and gave it to Luis.
He took Luis’ arm and led him toward the door. The MBR guy was now fighting for air and a pool of blood spread from under his back where the bullet had exited. The Rules of Land Warfare stressed that you never shot a wounded enemy combatant—you offered aid where possible. But this guy could conceivably crawl into the hallway and cause a problem. As Brodie looked at the guy, trying to decide if he should tie and gag him, he heard a soft pop, and the guy sprouted a third eye on his forehead.
Brodie looked at Luis, who kept the Beretta trained on the MBR guy to see if he needed another bullet in the head. Luis was obviously looking for payback for his battered face. Or maybe for his dead nephew, or for everyone he knew who’d been victimized by the unholy alliance of the regime, the military, and the colectivos.
Brodie said softly, “Okay. It’s done. Let’s go.”
Luis seemed not to hear and walked over to the bed to retrieve Brodie’s Glock, which he handed to him. Brodie stuck it in his waistband, but Luis was not finished collecting armaments, and he went to the foot of the bed where the MBR guy’s AK-47 was propped against the footboard. He looked at the automatic rifle as though trying to decide who should get it, then handed it to Brodie.
Brodie noted that the rifle had two thirty-round banana clips duct-taped together. One was upright and loaded in the magazine well and the other was upside down, allowing for an easy flip and reload. He’d seen thismakeshift configuration among militia guys before—double the fun without the hassle. Brodie pulled back the charging handle to see if a round was chambered, which it was. The rifle was on safety and Brodie moved the selector switch to full automatic. He now had the power.
Brodie stuck the silenced Beretta in his pants pocket, then motioned to Luis to stand behind him with his Beretta at the ready. Brodie opened the door and quickly scanned both ends of the corridor. A customer was exiting through the steel door near the baño, and Brodie stood motionless as the man left and the door swung shut.
He stepped into the corridor and motioned Luis to follow and to watch the rear as they headed toward the back of the building.
They turned the corner and entered the second corridor. Brodie looked at the steel door leading to the lounge and to the outside door and to escape.
Luis, who’d also figured out where that door led, whispered to Brodie, “There is a door in the lounge to the outside.”
Brodie nodded. But so far the only thing he’d accomplished in the Hen House was getting himself and Luis captured, and escaping by killing two guys who had nothing to do with his mission. A civilian would beat feet and call it a night. But the mission comes before avoiding capture. He needed to find a witness—a hooker—who could tell him about Kyle Mercer.
Luis was glancing between the steel door and Brodie, as if to say, “Let’s vamoose. Pronto, señor.”
Brodie said to him in a whisper, “I need to find a girl who could know about the man I’m looking for.”
Luis processed that, then reluctantly nodded. He hesitated, then went to a door, knocked, and said something in Spanish. An angry male voice—somewhat out of breath—came through the door.
Luis crossed the corridor and knocked on the opposite door, and again said something. No reply. This door had a closed bolt, which he quietly slid open. He then opened the door slowly, looked inside the room, and said softly, “Dios mío,” then made the sign of the cross.
